‘See you later.’ I dropped a quick kiss on Josh’s lips and we exchanged a knowing smile. He pulled me towards him and went back for a second lingering kiss, his hands finding their way inside my coat to slide down my bottom and then start inching up my dress.
‘Sure you don’t want to stay a bit longer?’ His voice held a note of husky suggestion.
‘No. I can’t. You’re going to be late, and,’ I glanced over my shoulder, ‘Dan might walk in at any second.’ His flatmate had the unerring ability of a Labrador sniffing a crotch to interrupt at precisely the wrong moment. My flatmate, Connie, had much greater diplomacy; in fact she had social skills.
He let go of me and picked up his cereal bowl, leaning against the kitchen counter, lazily eating as if he had all the time in the world.
‘See you later.’ He winked.
I picked up my laptop case and closed the front door of his, far nicer than mine, flat, and hurried down the road to the tube station mentally reviewing all that I needed to get done that day.
After two years of seamless travel to work, albeit sweaty, stuffy and crowded with the regular frustration of delays and hold ups, I missed my stop. The first time ever. This travel hiccough should have registered. In London, you have to be on the ball all the time. Checking your emails, phone messages, social media threads, it was endless. I missed my stop, simply because I was too absorbed in thinking what a load of bollocks as I read an article on some latest lifestyle fad over someone’s shoulder. Hygge. My flat mate Connie had been muttering about it the other night, waving some book about and lighting candles left right and centre in a woeful attempt to make our dismal flat homelier. As far I was concerned a couple of candles were never going to compensate for our landlord’s hideous taste and before I knew it the doors had closed on Oxford Circus.
Having to get off at the next stop and go back down the line didn’t make me late, only later than usual. I’m always at work super-early. Showing my commitment. How serious I am about my job. Not that I mind or I’m trying to score brownie-points, well maybe just a few. I just can’t wait to get there. Oh, God that sounds real eager, arse-licker, beaver. It’s not like that at all. I love my job, as a public relations Account Director. I work for one of the top PR agencies in London. I say I love my job, I do most of the time. The office politics and promotion manoeuvring I could do without and the pay could be an awful lot better. But hopefully that was about to change, I was overdue a long-promised promotion. Then I’d be earning a bit more and I could afford to move to somewhere where there isn’t a ten-inch Mohican fringe of blue mould growing down the living room wall.
Tube stop fiasco aside, there was time to treat myself to a Butterscotch Brulée Latte and it was only when I was in the queue that I saw a text from my boss, Megan, asking if I could pop in and see her first thing.
With a quick smile, I shoved my mobile back in my bag. There wasn’t going to be time to see her before heading up to the boardroom where every other Friday all fifty-five people in the agency met for our bi-monthly staff internal comms briefing, where new business wins and general big news – like promotions – were announced. I had a pretty good idea why she wanted to speak to me. I’d been waiting long enough for this day. Two weeks ago, following my shining, yes you are the dog’s bollocks appraisal, I’d made my case for the vacant position of Senior Account Director, which I was reasonably, no very, confident had been well-received. Megan had been hinting there might be some good news soon.
Despite wanting to bounce with anticipation as I took the stairs up to the third floor, I tapped up on my heels, decorous and professional, taking small neat steps as dictated by the tailored, fitted black dress which Connie insisted on describing as my Hillary Clinton funeral look.
I took a seat in one of the ergonomic chairs which my posture flatly refused to co-operate with. The lime green, moulded plastic wave shapes were supposed to make you sit properly but my back had made it quite clear that it was more than happy to sit improperly.
Trying to sit comfortably, I checked out the room as people slowly filed in. Recently re-decorated, the boardroom now sported a Mother Earth look, complete with one green wall of plants about three metres square. I wasn’t convinced that it didn’t harbour a huge variety of bugs and beasties. Supposedly it was inspiring as well as practical; apparently it produced fresh oxygen (was there such a thing as stale oxygen?) to help stimulate creativity. At the same time a little Zen indoor waterfall had also been installed to promote calm, mindful thoughts, although I found if I needed to go to the loo, it stopped me thinking about anything else.
Despite the pretentiousness of the boardroom, every time I looked around, I relished the sight of it. I’d made it. I worked for The Machin Agency – one of the top London public relations companies. Well on the way to the next step of my five-year plan. Not bad for a girl from Hemel Hempstead, allegedly the UK’s ugliest town. And today, I’d take another step.
The Managing Director took the floor and two seconds later Josh sidled through the door. Just in the nick of time he slipped into a seat on the front row, catching my eye very briefly as he passed me. I hadn’t saved him a seat and he wouldn’t have expected me to. We’d agreed that no one at work needed to know that Josh Delaney and Kate Sinclair were seeing each other, especially when we worked in the same team in the consumer department of the agency.
Ed, the MD, had a string of announcements to make and I sat waiting in anticipation.
‘And I’d like to make an announcement regarding our most recent promotion.’
I sat up a little straighter and uncrossed my legs, trying to muster up a humble but deserving expression. This was it.
‘I’d like you all to join me in congratulating Josh Delaney on his promotion to Senior Account Director.’
‘Kate.’ I looked up at the brusque tone of my boss. As usual she looked perfect, her thick auburn hair slightly waved, feminine but not too girly, wearing a tailored dress, figure hugging but not too revealing and standing tall and lean in heels, kick-ass and mean. ‘Can I have a word?’
I nodded, suddenly not trusting my voice. I’d seen the hint of sympathy in her eyes.
I followed her into her office and closed the door at her nod, sitting down gingerly on the retro dark grey sofa which always looked more inviting than it was.
‘I wanted to speak to you before the meeting this morning. You’re usually here by then.’
I shrugged. ‘Tube malfunction.’ There was no way I was admitting to her that I’d missed my stop. That wasn’t the sort of thing I did.
She folded her arms and paced. ‘I’m sorry you had to hear like that. I know you were keen to get that promotion but … on balance the board felt you needed a little bit more experience. A little more gravitas.’
I nodded. Agreeing. Miss keen-to-please, my boss is always right, crap. Gravitas? What the … was that?
‘And,’ her painted mouth turned down in a moue of disgust, ‘you’re still young.’
I was exactly the same age as Josh. I knew what she was getting at.
‘They wanted a man.’
She didn’t respond immediately. I took her silence as acknowledgement.
‘They were very impressed with Josh’s ideas for the skincare brand. I think that was what swung it in his favour. He’s got creativity and that … gravitas.’
I nodded again, feeling like a bloody woodpecker. Creativity my arse. Just bloody good at palming off my ideas as his.
Inside I was still steaming. Lead balloon gutted. During the meeting I’d managed to sip unconcernedly at my ridiculously poncy, expensive drink while regretting buying the bloody thing. Most of all I regretted not practising the Oscar nominated, gracious loser and I’m only the teeniest tiny bit disappointed look. Two things really stuck in my craw, one he’d never so much as mentioned he was going for promotion and two ‘the ingenious ideas for a mobile app for a new skincare campaign,’ which just so happened to be mine.
‘Kate, we do value you very highly and I’m sure in another couple of months we can review things.’
I lifted my chin and nodded but even she could see the slight wobble of my lip. Although she probably had no idea that as I looked back down at the spiky heels of the killer black I’m-about-to-be-promoted court shoes, I was busy imagining them making contact with a certain person’s soft and tender bits.
She sighed and shuffled some papers on her desk. ‘There is something … it’s just come in. I suppose you could have a look at it. We weren’t going to bother but … well you’ve got nothing to lose if you fancied having a go.’
It wasn’t exactly the most encouraging crumb but it was something.
I tilted my head, pretending to look interested while trying to hide the seething disappointment.
‘Lars Wilder’s been in touch.’
‘Really?’ I frowned. Three months ago Danish entrepreneur Lars Wilder had the London agency scene twittering like love-struck groupies desperate to secure his business.
‘Having appointed,’ she named our biggest rivals, ‘he’s fallen out with them and he’s still looking for the right publicity campaign to open his new Danish department store. He didn’t like any of their ideas. He’s looking for a fresh approach. This could be a great opportunity for you to prove yourself.’
‘But?’ I asked sensing her diffidence.
‘He wants a presentation the day after tomorrow.’
‘Two days?’ She was having a laugh. Except she wasn’t, she was deadly serious. Normally we spent weeks preparing for these presentations, which involved all singing and dancing PowerPoint slides, glossy artwork and lots of research about the market.
‘He’s flying to Denmark at lunchtime and wants to come in before his flight. I was about to call him and say we couldn’t do anything but …’
‘I’ll do it.’ I’d bloody show Josh Delaney and the agency bosses.
‘Are you sure?’
‘Yes,’ I said. OK I was stark staring mad but no one was going to say I didn’t try.
‘No one will expect you to win the business, of course, but it will look good that we didn’t say no to him. You’ll earn major brownie points by having a go. It’s a long shot but we have to be seen to try.’
‘What’s the brief?’ I said putting my shoulders back. Nothing to lose and everything to gain.
She held out a single white sheet of paper. I did a double take. Where was the document we usually received with pages and pages of stats and fancy fonts, headings and sub headings about ethos, values, market background and the MD’s inside leg measurement?
Hjem
Bringing the heart of Hygge
to the UK on Marylebone High Street
‘That’s it?’ I stared disbelieving at the simple typeface tracking across the pure white paper like footprints in snow. This was my great opportunity. She had to be kidding. It was like being given a pair of nail scissors and asked to make the pitch at Wembley match ready for the FA Cup final. My career and the chance to show Josh Delaney that I was back in business came down to this?